


Something to Prove

by dragongoats



Series: Tales of Thedas [19]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Entropy Magic, Gallows Humor, Gen, M/M, Provings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongoats/pseuds/dragongoats
Summary: Surana shows off during the Provings, with unexpected results.





	Something to Prove

**Author's Note:**

> friendly fire and walking bomb is a bad combo...

Surana paced around the Proving common area while he waited to be called to the arena. The strap holding his staff had torn in some prior skirmish, the rough wood chafed at his shoulder blades as it bobbed along with each frustrated step.

His companions collectively leaned or sat nearby, taking a moment to rest before they too were summoned to fight. Zevran whistled merrily while unbraiding and braiding his hair, brushing his long golden locks until it shone. Alistair stood with his arms folded, on-guard for threats like the Templar he was. He cast furtive glances at the rougher looking dwarves nearby with all the stealth of a Mabari war hound charging into battle.

Surana huffed fondly. Something about the authenticity of Alistair’s open honesty, so endearingly Fereldan, really got him going. If only the man was keen enough to recognize Surana’s flirtations, all would be well in the world.

Well, as well as could be considering the blight, and possible war with Orlais…

Surana toyed with the frayed edges of the cotton bandages he kept wrapped around his left wrist. Some days he had no time at all, he merely went through the motions of travel and setting up campsites, punctuated with a rare battle by some unlucky mercenary band or pack of wolves. Other days, such as this one, he had all the time in the world to ponder such things as his inevitable death in the deep roads as a Warden, or how he was going to get Alistair to finally realize that when a man asks him to share a tent he doesn’t mean for sleep.

In truth, Surana despised the peace and quiet. The monotony of doing nothing and being alone with one’s thoughts, felt reminiscent of the years of being locked away in the Circle Tower. It was not a pleasant memory.

Being out in the field, and able to be free and open with his abilities, was worth anything.

A short life was better than a caged life after all. Surana was well-aware that his opinion was not popular in the circle tower, now more so than ever with it being over-taken by blood mages. Still, nothing worth having ever came easy, and he would not be silent or meekly fade away for someone else’s comfort.

 

 

The dwarven proving master called Surana in next. He laid out the rules of the Provings: First blood, anything goes.

Surana pressed his lips together and flexed his hands into tight fists. He idly wondered if casting blood magic would cause him to lose, but thought better of asking it outright.

Every time he brought out the trusty knife from his lower back to make a cut here or there, he could feel the disapproval in his companion’s narrowed eyes and diverted gazes.

Surana smirked on the thought that while they disapproved they did not say anything. It turned out that the religiously indoctrinated fear of blood magic only went so far when faced with a blight.

So, no blood magic then. He thumbed through his spell book, trying to remember how to cast spells with mana rather than with life force. Entropy always came easiest to him and was effective at crowd control. And that was a necessity when a mage such as he finds himself locked alone in an arena to fight for a dwarven nobles’ right to rule.

This entire blighted situation reminded Surana the reasons why he disliked politics as a rule. He’d avoided such squabbling in the circle tower, which had more infighting and sects than he could count. No amount of sob stories of pleading had brought him to their cases. Even those who desired freedom, those who were apparently radical blood-mages had relied on demons and lost their sanity, he saw little in common with them either.

If only the Chantry and the Templars could see blood-magic as nuanced as it really was. But they weren’t exactly well known for their ability to see shades of grey in anything. Duty, honour, faith, these were all qualities that one either embodied or did not. It didn’t leave much room for the rest of them.

It felt stifling.

 

Surana made to enter the arena alone, dismissing the invitation for others to join him against the myriad combatants.

Alistair pleaded for him to reconsider: “Please, Surana, let me be your shield.” Alistair placed a hand on Surana’s shoulder, holding his gaze with a concerned frown.

Surana waved him off. “I’ve got it under control.” He flashed him a smirk and tossed his staff back and forth between his hands. “You’ll all just get in the way. And this will get messy.”

Alistair quickly pulled back his hand, a horrified look on his face. The others looked suitably alarmed. Zevran narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Leliana gasped then pursed her lips.

No doubt Leliana and the others recalled the many times Surana had used the Walking-bomb spell, resulting in a mass of exploded flesh and innards. None of them ever felt clean after that.

To be fair, Surana had asked them to move first. Sort of.

And then there was the time Surana had placed a walking-bomb in Alistair's stew and it exploded all over his face, staining his tunic a darken shade of Fereldan brown. He suspected Alistair still hadn't gotten out all the stains.

“Surana, please,” Leliana began. “These people do not deserve that level of brutality… It is also highly unsettling.” Her voice was light and pleasant, though it held a note of frustration that even well-trained Orlesian manners could not obscure.

Surana’s smirk grew wider and he turned on his heel to enter the ring alone.

 

Surana took on challenger after challenger easily with an exaggerated twirl of his staff. They were no match for ice, and entropic spells of sleep, fear, and life-drain.

He preened under his feathered Tevinter robes and bowed to the adoring crowd. He soaked up every moment of the stage. He did wonder how the audience could cheer for him when he took down Orzammar’s best in a matter of moments without touching a blade, but he didn’t question it too carefully. Some mysteries were best left unsolved.

He knew his companions must be sitting somewhere nearby. He imagined their faces, upturned with admiration and pride, impressed by his display of magical power and restraint.

He liked to think he could gauge a crowd, and he was nothing if not an unapologetic performer.

When the audience cheered for blood, who was he to deny them.

The final challengers were numerous, though they made the fatal error of clustering just a bit too closely together.

Surana elegantly twisted his body into a defensive stance and slammed his staff down hard into the ground. A heavy mist spiralled around his opponents and they drifted off to sleep where they stood.

Surana smirked at a job well done. He felt the reserves of his mana, and twitched his fingers as he remembered he wasn’t to use blood magic in front of political allies. He gathered energy in the palm of his hand and sent it shooting into the belly of the nearest foe.

The magic sparked and hissed as the heat built within their body. Surana took several steps back and cast a protective shield around himself.

No doubt Leliana would be unimpressed, but how else was he going to deal with a dozen heavily armed combatants?

The crowd had gone silent as the action in the arena went still. The hissing emanating from the fighter grew in volume, like a tea kettle boiling over on the stove.

Then with a crack of bones snapping, followed by a heavy splat as bits and pieces landed on those nearby, they were no more.

The audience gasped with a sharp intake of air, before all was still again.

Then the others exploded in turn. It began slowly, then increased, each body making a pop, pop, popping sound as the area floor grew a new viscous layer.

Surana looked around at his audience and took a deep bow, a pleased smile on his face, waiting for the praise to reign in.

 

* * *

 

“… And that’s when they started booing,” Alistair recounted to Wynne back at camp. He was doubled over, his hand bracing himself on his thigh as he laughed at Surana’s expense.

Wynne narrowed her eyes. “I… see.” She looked towards Surana who sulked nearby on a wooden log by the fire.

“But why are you covered in… is that rotten fruit?” Wynne asked, sniffing the pungent air.

“Because after that, they started throwing rotten fruit,” Alistair added, breathlessly between laughs.

Surana huffed and picked at a mushy spot of apple which clung to the feathers of his robe. They would never get clean. He would smell like a compost heap for the rest of his days.

“Someone should console me,” Surana said petulantly. As much as he enjoyed being the centre of attention, he did not enjoy being ridiculed.

Leliana approached him and handed him a moderately clean towel. “You brought this upon yourself, you know.” She said, her eyes not unkind, though not exactly kind either.

“Magic is to serve man, isn’t that so?” Surana asked, after wiping the worst of the fruit off his face.

Leliana looked down at him, a guarded expression on her face. She was cautious about stepping in such an obvious trap, yet could find no way to disarm it. “Yes….?”

She had every right to be suspicious, Surana felt the joke welling inside him, overtaking whatever bitter stubbornness he tried to cling to.

Alistair’s laughter continued to ring through the air, like background music to a play. Surana’s lips quirked into an almost-smile.

“Well, today, I served man… on the floor!” Surana said, waiting for her inevitable response.

Leliana blinked and stared. She pursed her lips and cursed: “Of all the…”

Surana pealed with obnoxious laughter. His body shook, and he lost his balance and he toppled over backwards off the log. He landed on the hard ground with a heavy thud and a squelch of mushy fruit.

Surana sighed heavily, his back growing cold on the rough ground. He mulled over the injustices of the world, as Alistair’s giggling rang out through the night.


End file.
